


Death of Apollo

by KiwiBerry



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU where Enjolras dies first, Canon Era, Gen, Major character death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiBerry/pseuds/KiwiBerry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It seems as though I am about to shoot a flower"</p>
<p>Canon AU where Enjolras is the first to die at the barricades</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of Apollo

“Death to the leader! Fire!”

“Enjolras, no!”

Combeferre’s voice was deafened by the sound of multiple guns firing at once aiming for the blonde statue which adorned the top of the barricade, red flag raised in defiance, and only one had to hit it’s mark to watch him crumble.

“Enjolras!”

“My god.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“Joly! Joly come quick!”

Combeferre watched as Joly pushed through the small crowd of onlookers, using his shoulder to wedge past those frozen by fear. He dropped to his knees beside Combeferre, watching as the man’s frantic hands slowly stained with blood while his eyes searched Joly’s for answers.

“Joly, what do I do?”

“Just keep applying pressure to the wound,” Joly supplied as calmly as he could, taking off his jacket and handing it to Combeferre to use in place of his hands that now dripped with fresh blood.

Combeferre nodded silently, taking the coat gratefully, and returned to putting pressure on the wound, body trembling as he did so. Joly could see the tears threatening to break but Combeferre held them in and Joly felt his heart break at the sight.

“What happened? Who got shot?”

Both Combeferre and Joly looked up to find Courfeyrac standing over them, eyes alert and aware, taking in the scene below him.

“Oh god, Enjolras…” he muttered in a low whisper, raking a hand through his hair. Joly watched his eyes shift back and forth in thought before breaking away, running back into the crowd of onlookers. Combeferre continued to whisper low pleads of “Please, Enjolras, stay with me” under his breath as Joly watched, placing a soothing hand upon his shoulder as he did so.

“Combeferre…”

Combeferre looked down to see Enjolras staring up at him, face pale in the evening light, hair askew about his face, small splatters of blood masking his chin. Combeferre smiled as best he could.

“Yes Enjolras, it’s me.”

“Good,” Enjolras replied, voice low and barely audible, “That’s good…”

Joly placed his hand over Combeferre’s to stop them from shaking as he watched Enjolras grow silent once more. Moments later Courfeyrac returned with Gavroche.

“I had Gavroche run and pick up something for us,” Courfeyrac explained, throwing a long piece of white fabric Joly’s way. It was a bandage, dried blood staining the left side, but it was better than nothing.

“Right,” was all Joly could reply as he moved Combeferre’s hands aside and inspected the wound. Moving away his jacket and vest, Joly could see a single bullet hole, the ragged edges overflowing with blood. He placed a finger inside it testily, getting a feel for the damage hidden beneath.

“It’s too deep,” Joly admitted after a few moments, fingers slick with blood, “the bullet shattered upon impact. I’d have to take each piece out individually.”

“Then take them out” Gavroche replied in a scared voice, arms crossed and face contorted in anger at the familiarity of the scene in front of him.

“Right,” Joly said, place holding for a moment, “but I would need something small and sharp to dig them out. Something like-”

“I’ve got it,” Courfeyrac assured, running into the Musain, grateful to be doing anything that would take his mind off the present. Joly waited patiently while Combeferre counted each time Enjolras took a breath, the number growing fewer and fewer by the minute. 

When Courfeyrac finally returned, he came brandishing a small metal knife, mainly used for cracking open stubborn bottles, followed by a half dazed Bahorel, “Will this do?”

“Yes,” Joly replied, but it was half hearted. The utensil was unsanitary for starters and the tip was dull. But it was all they had and Joly decided he would make due.

The first scream that erupted from Enjolras’ body was the worst. The rest that followed were simply white noise, numbing each of their bodies as they become accustomed to the strangled cries and pleads. Bahorel cursed under his breath each time.

“Are you sure that’s helping him?”

Joly’s eyed snapped up with tempered patience, “I’m doing the best I can, Bahorel.”

No one commented on the way his bottom lip quivered with each word he spoke.

Another few minutes passed, everything beyond the barricade silent, as if in reverence for what was happening on the other side. As Joly removed another bloody piece of shrapnel, Enjolras’ eyes began to roll back in his head and Combeferre was the first to grab his face with both hands, smearing blood across Enjolras’ cheeks.

“Enjolras. Enjolras stay with me. Please Enjolras, do not do this.”

Enjolras’ eyes fluttered a moment, before focusing on Combeferre whose face was littered with tears, a few small drops falling upon Enjolras’ forehead.

“‘Ferre…” Enjolras began, tearing his gaze from his friend and placing it toward the sky, “It’s….it’s raining….”

And with that Enjolras’ eyes stilled and Combeferre let out a small, muffled cry that echoed against the walls of the surrounding street before letting his forehead fall against Enjolras’ in defeat. Joly tried to coerce him away but Combeferre shook him off and Joly did not persist. He knew he could never understand the pain Combeferre was going through: the pain of losing your best friend; your brother.

Eventually, the crowd of school boys surrounding them dissipated, ordered by Courfeyrac to do something productive, like check the barricade’s structure or reload the rifles. When Grantaire finally appeared, everyone was busying themselves and barely paid him any notice as he sauntered out of the Musain.

“What’s going on?” he asked, a slight slur to his words,“I heard screaming-”

Courfeyrac was the first to meet him, turning around as soon as Grantaire had begun to speak, so when his knees buckled beneath him, Courfeyrac was there to catch him.

“Grantaire. Grantaire look at me,” Courfeyrac soothed, cradling the other in his arms as Grantaire gaze remained fixed upon their lifeless leader, body limp as he watched Joly finally pull Combeferre away and gently close their leaders beautiful, bright, blue eyes for good.

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac tried again, bringing the man around to face him, to look anywhere but at Enjolras, “It’s okay. Grantaire, it’s okay.”

But Grantaire only watched him with lifeless eyes, the haze of alcohol long devoured by his newfound pain and grief. Courfeyrac sighed before releasing the man as he pushed himself upright, yet shoulders slouched in despair. He glanced a moment at Courfeyrac, then Joly, then Combeferre, and it was Bahorel who threw a supportive arm over his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault.”

Grantaire looked up at Bahorel with wide eyes, wanting to believe in his words. But all he could see was himself slowly falling into a drunken stupor upstairs while his Apollo bled to death on the street below.

“The sun rises in the morning,” Grantaire began in a low voice before shrugging off Bahorel’s shoulder, eyes downcast “and it warms us. We complain of the weather, too hot and humid for our liking, but we do not blame the sun for it is only doing what it knows. But that does not mean the Sun does not feel that it is too blame.”

At this, Grantaire picked up the abandoned red flag at his feet, crushing the scratchy fabric between his fingers.

“Here,” he commanded, throwing it toward Joly and Combeferre,”It is only suitable that our leader gets swathed in the color that suits him best.”

Combeferre was the first to move, slowly picking up the discarded flag and laying it out neatly on the lone table inside the Musain, left alone for unknown reasons. He began to smooth the wrinkles and edges multiple times, as if erasing them of their existence. The other’s soon followed his lead.

Joly and Courfeyrac began to dress Enjolras’ wound, tearing away his shirt to clean the now still wound, blood beginning to dry over his abdomen and chest. They used Joly’s jacket to eliminate most of it, the dark brown fabric brimming with an undertone of blackened blood and Courfeyrac sighed as he held it up, hands shaking, before throwing it onto the barricade, a reminder of what had occurred and an omen of what was surely to come.

Grantaire simply watched from afar, having leaned himself upon a pillar of the Musain, arms crossed. He didn’t comment, no witty or satirical remarks omitting from his mouth. The only thing he preached was silence, eyes red and rimmed with unshed tears, and the others followed his lead.

Eventually, Bahorel left only to reappear with Jehan, Feuilly, and Bossuet at his heels, heads hung low, as if afraid to confirm what they had already been told. When they reached the others, Bossuet simply stared and Feuilly ran a hand nervously on his trousers before fiddling with his cap. Jehan stood silently, eyes closed and head bent as if in prayer, before spotting Grantaire and making his way over.

Grantaire acknowledged Jehan with a simple glance, and Jehan accepted it gladly, standing beside the other a moment before pulling out a book from within his vest pocket, a small verse of poems, and opening to a random page. Adorned in the page was a single pressed flower, it’s vibrant stem and vermillion petals glowing across the white of the parchment. Grantaire watched with disinterest and Jehan gently picked up the flower, still containing enough life to not fall apart at the action, and grabbed one of Grantaire’s wrist. He uncurled the others fist with patience and gently pressed the flower into his open palm. Grantaire looked at the flower a moment before facing Jehan with a confused expression. Jehan smiled, then threw his glance to Enjolras.

“All good funerals need flowers,” Jehan said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Grantaire found himself at a loss for words.

When Grantaire didn’t move, Jehan slowly removed the flower from his palm in understanding, and made his way over to their now still leader, leaning down to place the plant between his cold hands, a slight warmth still radiating in his palms. Jehan forced a small, sad smile before stepping back, watching as Joly announced that he was done.

When they looked upon Enjolras, it was like he was simply sleeping. The wound, along with it’s blood, was hidden neatly beneath a new shirt and jacket, vest having been removed because of the excess blood that flowed through it’s fibers. His face feigned serene and calm, blonde curls pushed away from his forehead, as if he had only just fallen asleep under a single oak tree, body weary with fatigue but grateful for the rest.

Jehan choked back a sob and Courfeyrac grabbed his hand in comfort not only for Jehan but himself as well.

Joly looked at Combeferre, who had fallen into his usual hardened state, movements and words concise and exact; no more, no less. He motioned towards the red flag lain upon the table inside and Joly nodded before scanning the few of them that crowded together, looking for someone to take on the burden of what was to come next.

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone looked up then, eyes wide and tearful as they watched Grantaire push off from the stone pillar and walk over to Enjolras, arms falling quickly to his side, He stared a moment, eyes shining with something none of them could understand, and watched as he fell to one knee and, ever so gently, moved his arms beneath their leaders small frame and lifted him upward with great strength. When he found his balance, Grantaire brought Enjolras closer to him, the blonde’s still face falling close to his chest, and slowly made his way inside, the others following close behind.

Inside, Grantaire paused a moment, shifting Enjolras slightly before laying him upon the table and rearranging his arms and legs so he was as he had been when Grantaire had picked him up; forever in a peaceful slumber.

Grantaire paused a moment, taking the time to trace Enjolras’ cheek and run a calloused hand through his hair, blonde curls sliding through his fingers. Tears began to well up as he did so, and it was Feuilly who stepped forward, offering the hand that pulled Grantaire back outside and away from what may as well have been his own funeral. The others waited a moment, taking the time to replay all the moments they’d shared together, silent films playing in each of their minds, before exiting one by one until only Enjolras was left, alone with his single, pressed flower.

By then Grantaire had found himself a corner of the barricade, surrounded by both Feuilly and Jehan, who stared wordlessly at each other until Grantaire spoke up.

“We are all going to die,” he stated, words sincere and exact, not a single trace of the usual cynicism that came with the alcohol he regularly consumed. No, Grantaire was fully aware of what was happening around him and he had simply drawn the most basic conclusion; one no one had dared to breathe into life.

“Well, at the very least I am,” Grantaire added when he saw Jehan move to protest, cutting off his unspoken words, “the rest of you could leave now or even later, go home to family and loved ones. Find a pretty woman, have kids. Even Bahorel could be a lawyer if he wanted to this time around.”

Jehan watched with a solemn expression, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket, and Feuilly pushed his cap back on his head.

“Why do only you have to die? Why can’t you come with us?”

Grantaire meet Feuilly’s eyes for a moment, before flicking away and watching a small, torn piece of fabric sway on the barricade in the breeze.

“Because I’m already dead.”

“They’re coming,” came Marius’ voice from atop the barricade, having taken Enjolras place moments after he had fallen. Marius had not shed a tear or took part in the trivials that happened beneath him as the soldiers on the other side of the barricade waited silently, listening to the snippets of cries and curses that fluttered in the breeze. It was as if when Enjolras had died, his spirit had been reborn into Marius, determined and focused. The other’s held him in awed reverence.

“Get the men armed and ready,” Marius ordered, adorning his own gun and staring down the rifle with flawless precision, “Everyone about their place. We make them pay for every man.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this the other night on a whim and I'm having mixed feelings about it. Good? Bad? Let me know in the comments. Criticism is greatly appreciated :)


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